


Trust

by Mireille



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: maleslashminis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-14
Updated: 2007-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Angel and Wesley are on the run. Wesley's not sure it'll be enough.





	Trust

"You don't have a suitcase," Angel began, dropping a battered liquor-store box heavily on the floor, "but you managed to pack four boxes of books?"   
  
"Clothes are easy to replace," Wesley pointed out as best he could around a mouthful of tacks. "Those books aren't, and we need them." The blackout curtains--the ones he'd been intending to put up in his apartment a lifetime ago--were supposed to be the best on the market, but the fabric was heavy, and he had to put a tack in the wall every half-inch or so. He'd have a chore getting them out tomorrow night, but the motel room was small and faced due east. Angel wouldn't be able to venture far past the bathroom and closet in the morning without risking exposure to direct sunlight.   
  
He put the last tack into the wall and stepped down from the desk chair, adjusting the curtains. "There. That should keep the light out all morning."   
  
In the meantime Angel had sat on the edge of the bed and was making faces at Connor, who had woken up from his nap and would soon start fussing to be taken out of his car seat. "I'm not so sure we should stop," he argued. They'd been having that argument since before midnight, and Wesley wasn't certain if Angel was aware that he'd already lost.   
  
"I can't drive and look after Connor properly," Wesley reminded him. "And Connor can't ride all day under the blanket with you; he needs fresh air." Perhaps it wasn't entirely fair of him to use Connor as part of his argument, but at least it generally got Angel to see sense.   
  
"Maybe you're right," Angel conceded. "But as soon as the sun goes down, we need to be on the road." While Wesley slid the chair back into place and put the remaining tacks back into their plastic box, Angel turned his attention back to Connor, who was cooing happily, his eyes tracking the movement of the finger Angel was waving in front of him.   
  
Wesley couldn't argue with Angel, not about that. The more miles they put between them and Los Angeles, the easier Wesley would find it to breathe. Perhaps tomorrow they could drive for a short while past sunrise. Wesley could manage Connor for an hour or two, and it would get them farther down the road.   
  
He only wished he could be certain that leaving Los Angeles would do any good. For a prophecy it had been surprisingly clear. Even though Wesley was almost convinced that there had to be something--some loophole, some vagueness, some context in which the foretold outcome was less horrific than the one in his imagination--he couldn't be absolutely certain.   
  
Except now, when he was watching Angel take Connor out of his car seat. "Can you get the blanket out of his bag?" Angel asked. "The green one, not the one with ducks on it." Wesley couldn’t properly juxtapose the words of the prophecy-- _the father will kill the son_ \--with a conversation that involved blankets printed with fluffy yellow ducklings.  
  
Wesley found the right blanket and handed it over. Angel spread it out on the bed, reached for the diaper bag, and started to change his son with an efficiency that still surprised Wesley. Angel had taken to fatherhood, even the messier parts, more easily than Wesley would ever have anticipated.   
  
If there were a way to prevent the prophecy from coming true in the most obvious manner, Wesley would find it. That was the reason he'd brought so many of his books with him; he meant to continue his research, as much as he could when he was spending most of his waking hours driving.   
  
Speaking of which--"I'm going to fill up the car," he said. "We had less than a quarter of a tank, and if we should need to leave quickly...."  
  
"Good idea," Angel agreed, not looking up from where he was trying to fasten the diaper tapes around a wriggling baby. "Can you get him some diapers while you're out? We  _probably_  have enough to get through tomorrow, but--"  
  
"Of course. Anything else?" Wesley asked, checking the package of diapers. Cordelia had brought back the wrong brand of talcum powder last week, and from Angel's reaction, one might have been excused for thinking she'd suggested applying toxic waste to Connor's skin.   
  
"The diaper rash stuff with the stupid name, if they have any. Just in case."   
  
On his way down to the car, Wesley tried to remember if he'd seen a drugstore as they came into town. It didn't matter, he decided. He'd be glad of some time out of the room--an hour or so for the swirl of his thoughts to settle. He couldn't refuse to leave Angel alone with Connor--not without telling him about the prophecy, and Wesley was determined not to do that. Angel knew Connor was in danger, knew there was trouble coming from all sides, including Wolfram and Hart. That was enough. The rest was Wesley's burden to carry, and if he could only get a decent morning's sleep, it might be a little easier tomorrow.   
  
Wesley filled up the car, then found a Walgreens a few blocks from the motel. He took longer than strictly necessary, browsing shelves of baby wipes and cheap plastic bibs with a fascination they didn't actually merit. Unless, of course, you were Angel, who'd got into a twenty-minute debate last night with a complete stranger about the merits and drawbacks of pacifiers. (He had eventually bought one anyway on the grounds that he might need to be able to quiet Connor quickly, but Wesley was certain he'd feel guilty about using it.)   
  
When Wesley realized he still wasn't quite ready to go back to the motel he drove to the Wal-Mart on the edge of town, because Angel was right: he had chosen to pack books and blackout curtains instead of clothing or a toothbrush. At least the fluorescent lights kept him awake as he wandered through the aisles--mercifully nearly empty at this hour of the morning--filling his cart with a couple of pairs of cheap blue jeans, two shirts, socks, and other necessities of life--then, remembering that Angel had packed for Connor and not himself--therefore giving him no room to talk--going back for the same again, in a larger size and darker colors.   
  
After a few moments' internal debate, Wesley decided to risk using his credit card, hoarding their small supply of cash until they got wherever it was they were going. After all, he was less worried about the threats that might follow than the ones he'd brought with them.   
  
Perhaps, he argued with himself on the drive back, he should have taken Connor and run--fled the city with him to protect the baby from Angel. But Wesley hadn't been able to do that. When the time had come he hadn't been able to bring himself to cause Angel that much pain, even to spare him a greater one. No, it was better this way, he rationalized. He and Angel could protect Connor from anything that might come after him, and he could find some solution to the rest. Angel would never need to know.   
  
Wesley lugged the bags up the stairs to their room. He had to fumble a few times with the key card, and when he got the door open, he was greeted by the sound of Connor wailing somewhere out of sight, and the sight of--  
  
Wesley blinked until he was quite certain that he was seeing Angel, stark naked, dripping wet with shampoo in his hair, holding a sword. He wasn't certain whether to find the sight alarming, disturbingly erotic, or simply ridiculous.   
  
He ruled out "alarming" when Angel realized who it was and lowered the sword. "I thought someone was trying to get in," he explained. Connor's shrieking hit new earsplitting heights, and Angel winced, dropping the sword on the bed before going to retrieve his son.   
  
"I was taking a shower," Angel explained unnecessarily as he reemerged with a still squalling Connor, whose face was red and whose fists were waving in the air with impotent fury. "And that was okay with Connor as long as I was in the bathroom with him, but I think he got bored once I left."  
  
Wesley set the shopping down, putting the sword away before Angel could start to fret about the possibility of Connor getting his hands on it. Never mind that Connor wasn't precisely mobile yet and the situation could easily be resolved by setting him down on the other bed; Wesley had already learned that Angel was not precisely rational when it came to Connor's wellbeing. Which was why, Wesley thought, feeing more hopeful than he had in some time, he could be certain there would be some previously-undiscovered clause in the prophecy that could be used to keep the worst from happening.   
  
Connor had settled down quickly after being rescued from the dual indignities of his car seat and the bathroom, and now Angel looked up at Wesley with a puzzled expression, "I didn't know I'd scared you that much," he said. "You should have been expecting me to be armed."  
  
Armed, perhaps, though possibly not naked and soapy, Wesley thought clenching his teeth because he realized that near-hysterical laughter was likely to accompany the words. "I was," he said, "and you didn't."   
  
"Wes, I can hear your heart pounding from over here," Angel said. "Either you're lying, or--" he paused. "Or, um."  
  
"Or?" Wesley said, smiling now that he seemed to not be the only one slightly nonplussed by the situation.   
  
"Or, uh, not." Angel floundered for a moment. "Right now is not a good time for this," he went on. Wesley's heart sank slightly, then rose again when Angel went on. "But when we have Connor someplace safe, I think we should--"  
  
"Talk?" Wesley supplied when Angel trailed off again.   
  
Angel's face fell. "If we have to."  
  
Wesley chuckled, then deliberately looked Angel over, taking in both lean, hard muscle and the way drying shampoo left Angel's hair sticking up in ridiculous clumps. "Perhaps not at first," he ventured, and Angel smiled slightly.   
  
"As for now," Wesley said, "go and finish your shower. I'll keep an eye on Connor."   
  
Angel hesitated, then handed the baby over to Wesley. "Yeah. I know you will," he said.   
  
And he'd keep the other eye on Connor's father, as well, Wesley thought, no longer wondering why he'd told Angel they had to run, why Angel had accepted his pronouncement that Connor would die if they stayed in Los Angeles without argument. Angel would do anything to protect Connor, and trusted Wesley to do the same.   
  
Wesley would do anything to protect  _Angel_ , but in the end, the two goals worked out to be essentially the same. Particularly when he realized that Angel would rather die again than harm his son.   
  
Wesley was determined. He wouldn't let it come to that.   
  
The sounds of Angel's off-key crooning drifted out from the bathroom, over the sound of running water. Angel trusted him with this, and Wesley had a new, even stronger, incentive to live up to that trust.   
  
For the first time in weeks, with Connor still held in his arms, Wesley slipped into an untroubled sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


End file.
